


when the sky is starless

by polyamory



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Control, M/M, Magical Realism, Multi, Mutant Powers, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Other, POV Combeferre, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-25 20:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7546325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polyamory/pseuds/polyamory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a pile of rubble where he knows there used to be a kitchen island, a big thing made of dark wood with a granite countertop.<br/>All that's left of it now is a pile of dirt and a fine sheen of dust on the floor.<br/>"Grantaire did that?" Combeferre asks.<br/>"Yeah," Chetta says and the word is like a punch, even when he saw it coming it still knocks the breath out of his lungs.<br/>"Unmaking," he says, more to himself than to either of them.</p><p>Grantaire has trouble controlling his new power and Combeferre attempts to help him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> excited to share this new concept!! updates every day, let me know what you think!!,

"I just really need to have you here right now." Grantaire's voice sounds shaky when he speaks and the words he was about to say die in Combeferre's.

"Yeah," he breathes out, clears his throat and manages again, louder. "Yeah, sure. Where are you?" he asks, hoping the answer is _safe_ and knowing from Grantaire's tone that he's anything but.

"I'm in my room, I– fuck. I locked myself in my room, but– Joly and Chetta are still out there." Grantaire sounds like he's crying.

"Okay," Combeferre says into the phone pinned between his cheek and his shoulder while he pulls on his shoes. "I'm leaving now. Tell them I'll be there in ten minutes and that they don't have to worry."

"Please– please don't hang up?" Grantaire asks, his voice breaking.

Combeferre imagines Grantaire sitting alone in a corner of his dark room, panicked and lost, and thinks he couldn't hang up even if someone held a gun to his head.

"I won't," he promises.

He hears shuffling on Grantaire's end and then him calling out to his roommates, his voice muffled, and even more muffled their reply, called through the still locked door.

"They say they won't leave," Grantaire says into the phone and it sounds like he's crying again, barely holding back the sobs.

"Can you blame them?" Combeferre replies, breathless from running down four flights of stairs. "Would you leave if it were one of them locked in their room?"

"But this is different," Grantaire insists, "They're not safe!" And wouldn't Combeferre know what that's supposed to mean.

He'll have to wait though because Grantaire is far more likely to talk to him in person and once he's calmed down a little.

"I'll be there soon," Combeferre assures him once again.

He glances at his bike, chained to the lamppost outside the door, but decides against it because he promised Grantaire he wouldn't hang up and riding the bike while trying to stay on the phone would inevitably end in disaster, considering how keyed up he already is. He starts running down the street, phone still pressed to his ear.

"Want to tell me what's going on?" he asks once when he has to stop at a red light.

There's shuffling on Grantaire's end which he's liberally going to interpret as Grantaire shaking his head and sniffling a little.

"That's okay," he says and hopes he manages to sound soothing even though he's out of breath and gasping. "I'm only about three minutes away anyway and we can talk when I'm there, right?"

That seems to shake Grantaire enough because suddenly his voice is loud in Combeferre's ear. "What? No! You can't come here. It's not safe!"

"Grantaire," Combeferre calls, "I'm coming, okay? I'm coming and we're going to talk about it and it's going to be okay."

"No! It's not!" There's a loud crash in the background. "It's never going to be okay. I–" he breaks off, sobbing.

"Sssh," Combeferre manages, just as he rounds the corner to Grantaire's street. "I'm almost there, don't you worry, babe."

That just makes Grantaire sob harder.

He rings the bell and a second later he hears the shrill sound on Grantaire's end of the line.

"Ferre, is that you?" Joly's voice comes out of the intercom.

"Yeah, it's me," he replies, covering the phone with his free hand, and a second later there's a buzzing sound and he pushes the door open.

There's silence on Grantaire's end of the phone call and if it wasn't for his breath and the occasional sob Combeferre would think the call was disconnected.

"Grantaire?" he asks.

Grantaire makes a small noise in response.

"I'm standing in front of your door now. Joly's gonna let me in. I'm gonna hang up now. Is that okay?"

Grantaire sniffles some more before he says, voice impossibly small in a way that breaks Combeferre's heart, "Okay."

"I'm just a second away," Combeferre reassures him one last time and then Joly opens the door and the line goes dead.

"Hey," Joly greets, relief evident in every line of his face.

"How bad is it?" Combeferre asks, hoping for the best but bracing himself for the worst.

"Come and see for yourself," Joly sighs, gesturing him inside.

"I'm just worried about R," Musichetta says from where she's standing behind Joly. "He hasn't opened the door once and I have no idea what he's doing in there."

That makes Combeferre stop in his tracks and turn towards the two of them. "You mean he–" he breaks off, the words stuck in his throat.

Chetta's dark look says everything he needs to know and when Joly nods towards the kitchen he's not sure if he really wants to know what he's going to see there.

Still he turns around because he has to know.

There's a pile of rubble there where he knows there used to be a kitchen island, a big thing made of dark wood with a granite countertop.

All that's left of it now is a pile of dirt and a fine sheen of dust on the floor.

"He did that?" Combeferre asks.

"Yeah," Chetta says and the word is like a punch, even when he saw it coming it still knocks the breath out of his lungs.

"Unmaking," he says, more to himself than to either of them.

"And powerful at that," Joly agrees. "It's a rare power and the most powerful one I've seen before could hardly unmake a block of wood the size of a book."

"And he managed the whole kitchen island." Combeferre still can't tear his eyes away from the sad little pile of rubble that once was their kitchen island.

"I'm not worried about that," Musichetta says, "but what about R? The government will hear about this sooner or later, one way or another. A super that powerful can't hide very long."

"They're gonna see him pop up on their radars eventually," Joly agrees.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asks, finally turning back to face them.

Joly and Chetta look at each other for a long moment, doing that silent communication thing they do, before Chetta starts speaking.

"We were studying and he got frustrated at a math problem and the next thing I know the counter is crumbling under my hands."

"He was horrified as soon as he realized it was him who'd done it," Joly continues. "We tried to tell him it was no big deal, that he didn't hurt any of us, but he wouldn't listen. Locked himself in his room and hasn't come out since." He sighs.

"He told us to leave, that he can't control it–"

"He's probably right there," Combeferre cuts in.

"We're not gonna _leave_ him," Musichetta says, her expression growing stormy.

"No, of course not. God, no. That's not what I meant. I'd never– and I know you wouldn't either."

"Good," Musichetta says, settling back down from where she'd been leaning forward, crossing her arms over her chest.

"But he is right, you know," Combeferre continues, turning to Joly. "His powers set in late and they're _strong_ , it's only natural that it's gonna take him some time to get used to them."

"The best thing would be to find him a facility for the time being," Joly muses, going into doctor mode.

"But he'd never agree to that," Combeferre continues.

"And it's too dangerous." Chetta adds, "As soon as they get wind of what he's capable of they'll be handing him over to the government."

This is getting more and more complicated by the second and Combeferre can already feel a headache lurking at the edges of his mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to suppress it.

"I'm gonna talk to him, or see if he wants to talk to me, I guess." he sighs.

"If there's anyone R would talk to right now, it's you." Joly says and somehow the words manage to reassure him even if Joly's face is still contorted with worry.

"Wait," Musichetta says before he can so much as turn away. "Take this."

She steps around the dirt and walks over to the sink, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water.

"He's gonna need it, probably," she says and Combeferre is immensely grateful to know her in that moment because no matter what happens Musichetta never loses focus, never loses her calm and they all need that.

"Thanks," he says with a small smile.

He walks down the hall until he's standing in front of Grantaire's door. There's no sound coming from the room, no matter how hard he listens, and he only allows himself a brief moment to entertain the possibility of Grantaire climbing out of his window and falling to his death, before he knocks on the door.

"Grantaire?" he calls when that doesn't get him an answer.

There's shuffling on the other side of the door and then a muffled groan.

"Will you let me in?" he asks, trying the door but of course it's locked. "Please let me in."

"No," Grantaire sounds pained as he says it, "I can't. I can't hurt you." He sounds like he's leaning against the door and Combeferre presses his forehead to the wood, hoping it will reduce the distance between them.

"I want to see you. I want to make sure you're okay," he whispers and he's not even sure Grantaire heard him until he hears him exhale shakily.

"I can't risk you, Ferre. I can't hurt you, I would never forgive myself if I did."

"You're not going to hurt me," Combeferre says, making sure his voice sounds strong and firm when he does so.

Grantaire laughs bitterly, "You can't know that. I'm a danger to everyone right now, I can't control it and–" he breaks off and Combeferre wishes he could hug him and reassure Grantaire that he's going to be there for him.

"I trust you," he says instead, because it's all he can do right now.

"Didn’t you see what I did?!" Grantaire asks and he sounds so desperate it makes Combeferre ache. "That could be you, that pile of dirt. There's no guarantee I won't unmake the whole building the moment I unlock the door."

"You haven't yet, that's good enough for me."

There's no sound from the other side of the door for a few moments except for Grantaire's crying.

"R," Combeferre eventually asks tentatively when the silence has stretched on for too long. "Please?" He can't say anything more, suddenly feels so drained he just wants to lie down and sleep for a few days, preferably with Grantaire there next to him.

There's a click and then the door opens and Combeferre only has a moment to brace himself before he's stumbling into Grantaire's arms, holding on just as tight as Grantaire is clutching him.

He can't breathe and Grantaire's curls are in his mouth and tickling his nose and Grantaire is definitely crying into his sweater but he doesn't care either way and he wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world right now.

"Hey, shh. It's okay," he whispers after a while, "I've got you now. It's gonna be okay. We're gonna fix it, you and me together."

He murmurs the words into Grantaire's hair even when it makes him sob harder and hold onto Combeferre even tighter, his arms tightening around Combeferre's waist.

"I'm not gonna leave you. Never," he promises.

"I–" Grantaire breaks off and Combeferre's heart almost stops. _I love you,_ he thinks, but doesn't dare so much as breathe.

Grantaire nuzzles back into his shoulder and Combeferre's heart seizes painfully in his chest.

"Hey, come on," he nudges Grantaire lightly, "let's go sit on your bed, hmm?"

Grantaire doesn't let go of him, doesn't loosen his grip at all, but he starts shuffling towards his bed in the corner of the room.

They tumble onto it together, still intertwined too tightly to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

Combeferre moves away a little, just enough so that he can see Grantaire's face, eyes swollen and red from crying.

He remembers the glass of water that Chetta had given him and he must've put it down at one point but he can't remember it for the life of him. It doesn't matter either way because Grantaire doesn't look like he's going to let go of him any time soon and Combeferre doesn't think he's going to want to let go of Grantaire any time soon.

"Hey," Combeferre says again now that he can see Grantaire while he says it.

Grantaire who's lying there with his eyes squeezed shut like he's afraid even just looking at Combeferre will set off another wave of destruction.

"I'm here for you," Combeferre breathes into the space between them, the closest to an admission of his true feelings he'll ever get.

There's a loud crash behind them and then Grantaire staring at him like a deer in headlights, eyes wide and afraid.

"Oh fuck, oh _fuck_." he swears.

"Hey, shhh. Calm down, please. Your power is triggered by emotions. I need you to be calm." Combeferre allows himself one quick glance over his shoulder to see the small bookshelf partially crashed and surrounded by a cloud of dust, still settling, before he turns back to Grantaire. "Breathe with me, R. Breathe with me." He sucks in as gulp of air, waiting until Grantaire has followed his example to let it out in a swoosh, their breath mingling in the space between them.

"That's good, just like that. Come on, one more time. In," he says on an inhale, "and out."

Grantaire goes back to pressing his face into Combeferre's neck, which makes Combeferre's own breath stutter for a moment, but he keeps breathing. He can feel Grantaire's shoulders shaking on every shuddery inhale.

He doesn't realize he's started stroking and twining his fingers into Grantaire's hair until Grantaire pushes back against his head that if Combeferre didn't know better he would say sounds like Grantaire is purring.

There hasn't been any noise from Joly or Musichetta ever since he went into Grantaire's room, which probably means they went out to have dinner somewhere and will return late in the night when both he and Grantaire are hopefully already asleep.

"Let's go to sleep, R," he murmurs, nose buried in Grantaire's hair.

Grantaire hums contentedly before pulling away slightly, not enough to look at him but enough that his breath is warm against Combeferre's cheek when he speaks.

"I broke my desk. And my bookshelf. And, oh fuck, I broke Joly and Chetta's kitchen island." He sounds distressed which is a) not good for his control and b) not good for Combeferre, so he pulls him back in and hugs him tighter and hopes it conveys everything he can't let himself say. _I love you._

"They're not mad at you, nobody's mad at you." Combeferre reassures him, "All that, all that can be replaced but you know what can't? You," he presses a kiss to the top of Grantaire's head, "You can't be replaced."

Grantaire presses a kiss to his throat, just a dry press of chapped lips, one second there and then gone the next, but it still makes all the air rush out of his lungs.

"We have to clean it up," Grantaire protests weakly, but he doesn't move away from where he's pressed against Combeferre.

"We'll deal with that in the morning," Combeferre promises. "Just as soon as we've slept."

He's getting more and more tired by the second and from what he can tell Grantaire is barely awake anymore, understandably, the activation of his power so late in his life must've been exhausting.

He scoots down on the bed a little until both of them have their head on a pillow, but as he does so his sweater gets bunched up around his waist and suddenly his jeans are twisted around his legs and his glasses are digging into his face and he's never going to get sleep like this, so with the biggest sigh he can manage he sits up to disentangle himself from his clothes.

Grantaire grumbles a little when he moves away from him, pressing his face into Combeferre's hip and Combeferre pets his head lightly.

"Yeah, I know. Me too," he murmurs with a small chuckle, "Better get out of these clothes, though. Sleeping in jeans is _one_ freshman experience I'm not keen on reliving. Come on, let go. Just for a second, I'm not gonna go anywhere, promise," he adds when Grantaire makes a protesting noise. "Come on," he sits up "let me get you out of these."

He gets Grantaire to turn onto his back and manages to pull his t-shirt up and over his head without jostling him too much but as soon as his hands move to Grantaire's waistband to unbutton his jeans his eyes fly open and he's gripping Combeferre's wrists, tight as vices.

"What are you doing?" Grantaire chokes out.

"It's alright, Grantaire, it's just me. I'm just gonna help you out of these so you don't have to sleep in jeans, okay?"

He waits in silence until Grantaire gives a single jerky nod and releases his wrists. He's aware of Grantaire's eyes on him the whole time he unbuttons his jeans and tugs them down Grantaire's legs, taking his socks off too while he's at it.

When he's thrown them onto the ground with Grantaire's t-shirt he takes off his own sweater and after a moment stands up to take off his jeans, too. When he looks back over at the bed Grantaire is watching him, eyes half-lidded but his gaze sharper than it should be after the exhaustion of the day.

Combeferre takes off his glasses and puts them on the nightstand before settling back down onto the bed.

Grantaire presses in against him again and as soon as he's settled Combeferre pulls the blanket up over both of them.

"I'm sorry for scaring you just now," he whispers into the dark, because he knows he won't be able to say the words in the morning when there are other pressing matters to be taken care of, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have to say it.

Grantaire presses a tired little smile against his shoulder and tucks his face into the crook of Combeferre's neck.

"You didn't," he mumbles.

Combeferre frowns because it's clear that he did, but he doesn't press the issue.

"Good night," he murmurs instead and Grantaire presses another kiss to his collar bone.

"Night, Ferre," he mumbles.

_I love you,_ Combeferre almost says.


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes up he's alone, the bed cold where Grantaire slept and there's a second where he's consumed by wild panic before he remembers to check his phone for potential messages. The clock on his phone when he unlocks it tells him it's nearing 11 but his first class isn't until one in the afternoon so he's not in a hurry to get out of the apartment.

There are two texts from Grantaire and one from Musichetta from last night which reads, "We're coming home now. Text if we shouldn't."

He opens Grantaire's messages, sent only a few minutes apart.

"I'm leaving for uni now," the first one reads, sent at 9:13. The second says, "thanks for looking out for me last night".

He shoots off a quick "no problem :)" to Grantaire (and he only feels the slightest twinge of worry) and then gets out of bed to see if Musichetta is still in bed. Joly should be at the clinic already, working the morning shift, but Musichetta is what she likes to call self-employed so she can sleep in as long as she wants.

"Chetta?" he asks, knocking on her bedroom door. There's a groan inside and Combeferre smiles.

"I'm making breakfast," he calls out, "if you want some you'll have to get up. I'd do a lot for you but bringing you breakfast to bed is where I draw the line."

There's another groan from Musichetta, which he takes as the acknowledgment it is and goes to make some eggs and grilled cheese.

The kitchen is sparklingly clean again, most likely Grantaire's work, and Combeferre gets to work and by the time the cheese is sizzling in the pan and the whole apartment is filled with the smell of fried eggs Musichetta has come out of her and Joly's room, dressed in a dressing gown, hair pulled up haphazardly into a bun.

"The sun has risen!" Combeferre laughs when she shuffles into the kitchen, making a beeline for the enormous coffee machine that seems to be the only thing that keeps her alive at mornings.

"Fuck you," she grumbles and downs an entire cup of coffee. Combeferre winces because he  _ knows _ how strong that coffee is, he made it, but Chetta doesn't even bat an eye, just goes to pour herself another cup. "You're almost as bad as Joly in the morning."

"Yeah, only it's almost noon and believe me, you don't wanna see me in the morning, the real morning, I mean."

"Afternoon classes today?" she asks, still cradling her coffee cup.

"Yeah, and luckily no shifts at the clinic today. When are you leaving?" he asks.

"Oh," she shrugs, "eventually. It's not like there's a specific time I have to be at work or anything," she sneers.

"No, being a fortune teller is definitely not your typical nine-to-five job." Combeferre muses.

He puts the grilled cheese onto their plates with the eggs and hops onto the counter, patting the space next to him.

_ "Excuse you," _ Musichetta protests, mock-offended. "I'm not some charlatan fortune teller, I'm a  _ medium, _ I talk to the dead." She settles in next to him, taking a plate when he hands it to her and digging into the food with a groan.

"Sure you do," he snorts.

What Musichetta really does is she sits on the Place de la Republique and uses her powers, low-level telepathy, to read people's minds and tell them just what they want to hear. It's easy, she says, to pick the thoughts out of their head and tell them that their mother, their father, their wife or their dog wants her to relay them a message.

She makes good money that way and she likes doing it, likes going out and meeting people and working on her own terms.

"You're just lucky the police hasn't taken notice of you yet," Combeferre says, a familiar argument that he's made many times in connection to her work. A single comment to the wrong person and she could be off in a government facility like so many others.

"My power is far too weak for me to be on their radar," she replies, same as she always does. "I can only read non-powered people's thoughts and it only works if I'm touching them. There are probably hundreds like me out there."

"Still, just be careful, okay?" he asks, taking her empty plate from her and putting it in the dishwasher alongside his own plate.

Just then his phone buzzes, signaling an incoming text.

He pulls it out of his pocket and sure enough there's a new text from Grantaire.

"Please come get me!!!" it says and Combeferre freezes where he stands.

"Where are you?!" he texts back, then tries calling Grantaire. It rings and rings and rings and then, abruptly, it goes to voicemail.

"Hey, what's up?" Musichetta asks, growing worried, a frown forming on her face.

"It's Grantaire," he says and she freezes.

"Shit! Is he okay?"

"I don't know. He asked me to pick him up so I'm guessing something happened."

"Oh fuck," she breathes.

"I better get going, then."

"Yeah," Musichetta says distractedly, already checking her own phone for missed messages.

Combeferre's ready to go in just a few minutes, collecting the rest of his things from Grantaire's room and tugging his shoes on at the door.

"Call me when you've got news," Musichetta calls after him and he doesn't bother replying, just dashes down the stairs and spills onto the street.

A glance at his phone confirms what he already suspected, Grantaire still hasn't replied. He figures campus is a safe guess and heads in that direction, barely a ten minutes walk from his friends' flat.

While he walks, dodging pedestrians and bikes, he goes through Grantaire's usual hang outs in his head. The art department, definitely, the Place Centrale, the coffee shop nearest the art department, the gym where he takes his fencing lessons, the dance building where he spends a lot of time for lessons and for practice. He knows Grantaire has a few friends who live in the dorms on campus, but he doesn't know where they live or even who they are, so he's gonna have to make do with the information he has.

He decides to check in the art department first because it's where Grantaire spends most of his time and it's where he  _ should _ be at this time of day.

There's no sign of him in his studio booth, but there's paint splattered on the floor and Combeferre thinks he can guess what happened here.

He's just wandering the halls, hoping for any sign that might tell him where Grantaire is hiding, because if he accidentally unmade something he is definitely hiding somewhere, when suddenly he hears panicked sobbing coming from a less frequented hallway.

"Grantaire?" he asks, poking his head around the corner. He spots him cowering in the corner, curled up into a ball and sobbing into his knees.

"Grantaire?" he asks again, louder this time, and Grantaire's head jerks up at the sound of his name.

"Combeferre," he says, his voice breaking on a sob, and he sounds so glad to see him it almost breaks Combeferre's heart. "you came!"

"Of course I came," Combeferre says, slowly walking towards Grantaire at the end of the hallway. As soon as he's close enough Grantaire reaches up and pulls him down to the floor next to him, wrapping his arms around Combeferre's neck and taking a deep breath.

"It happened again," he confesses, still hiding his face in Combeferre's neck like he's afraid to admit it, afraid Combeferre's going to be mad.

"I know," Combeferre sighs, one hand coming up to tangle in Grantaire's curls, "I saw."

"You did?" That makes Grantaire look up, lifting his head from Combeferre's shoulder and blinking up at him with wide eyes.

"I was looking for you," Combeferre nods, "and I came by your studio booth."

Grantaire looks down as if he's ashamed. "I unmade a tube of paint," he whispers. "I was frustrated because the painting was not going my way and I – " he breaks off. "I unmade the paint. Nobody noticed, though," he adds quickly looking up once again as if to search for reassurance in Combeferre's face. Reassurance for what, Combeferre doesn't know. 

"I pretended it broke and then I left. I don't want to hurt anyone." He sounds almost pleading now as if he thinks Combeferre won't believe him, which, is just so wrong and Combeferre has to make it clear to him, somehow, that he isn't mad, isn't angry at him.

"All that matters right now is that you're okay," he says, gently taking Grantaire's face in both his hands. "I'm not mad at you, Grantaire. Nobody's mad at you, okay?"

Grantaire nods shakily, his eyes filling with tears again and he ducks back under Combeferre's chin before the first tear can fall.

"Thank you for coming," he mumbles into Combeferre's sweater, "Again." He lets out a bitter little laugh but Combeferre shushes him immediately.

"I'd do anything for you," Combeferre says and for a split second he's worried that it's too close to the truth, that he's given himself away, but Grantaire just sighs and hugs him tighter.

They sit like that for a long time, the little strip of light that's coming in through the window wandering across the floor, until Grantaire's breathing has evened out and he's stopped crying.

He's still shaking ever so slightly when Combeferre helps him up and he doesn't let go of Combeferre's hand once he's standing on his own two feet again.

They start walking down the hall, back the way Combeferre came, and it's only when he's pushing open the door to the art department that he remembers to ask Grantaire, "Do you need to pick up anything from your studio booth?"

"Nah," Grantaire says, swatting the question away like it's nothing more than an irritating fly. "I've got all my important stuff on me," he pats his pockets, "and the rest of my stuff will survive until tomorrow if I leave it here overnight."

"If you're sure?" Combeferre says, but it sounds like a question.

"I am," Grantaire says, smiling at him as he pushes past him and out of the building, dragging Combeferre along with him by their still linked hands.

"Did you walk here?" he asks, turning around slightly to address Combeferre directly.

"Yeah," Combeferre nods.

Grantaire walked too, it turns out, so they decide to make the walk home together.

"You really don't have to escort me all the way home," Grantaire says.

"But I want to," Combeferre insists. "I wanna make sure that you're okay."

That makes Grantaire duck his head and if he didn't know better Combeferre might think Grantaire is blushing, but there really is no way to tell under his dark brown skin.

 

They walk the rest of the way in silence, their hands swinging between them, and Combeferre is overtly aware of every minute shift of Grantaire's palm against his. And his palms are probably sweaty and, shit, is he holding on too tight? Is he not holding on tight enough? What is Grantaire thinking right now?

He's almost a little surprised when Grantaire stops and Combeferre recognizes his building.

"Do you wanna come back up?" Grantaire asks. "Just to make sure I'm okay, of course," he adds with a grin.

"Oh, shut  _ your _ mouth," Combeferre laughs, batting a hand at his face. He keys in the security code and holds the door open for Grantaire, who still hasn't let go of his hand. Grantaire pulls his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the inner door (because Joly, Chetta and  apartment is in the kind of neighborhood where there are two front doors and a security code).

They step into the elevator and suddenly in the small room the silence between them seems oppressive.

Combeferre almost jumps out of his skin when he feels Grantaire's thumb moving against the back of his hand, stroking small circles into the skin. He glances over at Grantaire from the corner of his eye but Grantaire is looking straight ahead so Combeferre follows his example, turning back and looking straight ahead at their reflections, contorted and twisted in the shiny golden metal of the elevator door.

The elevator comes to a stop with a chime that sounds deafening to Combeferre's ears and the doors slide open. Grantaire is the first to step out, leading the way to the apartment and pulking out his keys once more.

Combeferre notices the faint quiver in Grantaire's hands that he must've suppressed before just as Grantaire drops his keys, swearing loudly. He finally lets go of Combeferre's hand to bend down and pick up the keys (and if Combeferre's hand feels cold at the loss of contact it's not like he notices or anything).

Grantaire fumbles with the keys, trying to fit them into the lock and it turns into a cycle because the more Grantaire's hands are shaking the more trouble he has getting they key into the lock and the more trouble he has with they keys the more agitated he gets and the more his hands start shaking.

"Argh," he gasps out, shoving the keys at the doorknob fruitlessly. "Why is this not – Come on, fucking come on!" he screams.

"Hey," Combeferre says finally, pulled out of his stupor. "Let me – " He stretches his hand out for the keys but Grantaire just pulls them away.

"No, I can do this, okay? I almost had it. I – I almost had it." He grips the keys tightly, so tight his knuckles are white, and it looks painful to Combeferre, the metal biting into his skin.

"Just let me – just let me do this, okay?" He looks over at him and Combeferre can do nothing but nod, held in place by Grantaire's sharp gaze.

He turns back to the door, his hands shaking almost uncontrollably now and Combeferre sees it coming even before he hears the metallic clang that is the bundle of keys hitting the hardwood floor. There's more cursing from Grantaire and then suddenly a sharp intake of breath, a "fuck no" gasped out between clenched teeth and at that Combeferre finally opens his eyes again (and when exactly had he closed them?).

Grantaire is kneeling on the floor, hands pressed to the ground, his shoulders are bowed and the keys are nowhere in sight (and if this is something Combeferre suspected would happen then now is certainly not the time to say so).

He drops down to the floor beside Grantaire and puts a comforting hand onto his back. Grantaire's breath is coming faster by the second and Combeferre can feel the frantic up and down of it in the palm of his hand.

The muscles of Grantaire's back shift beneath his hand when Grantaire presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.

He lets out a noise that is probably best described as mangled scream, torn out of his throat like it's physically painful for him to hold it back. "I did it again."

"Hey, that's okay," Combeferre says in his most reassuring voice. "Do you have an extra key somewhere here?" He looks around the hallway, not the most ideal place to do this.

Grantaire shakes his head frantically and Combeferre goes back to rubbing circles into the skin of his back.

"Okay, I'm gonna call Joly and he's gonna leave the clinic early and come here with his keys and it's gonna be okay," he reassures. "Will you be okay if I go down the hall for a sec to call Joly?"

He gets a tentative nod from Grantaire and levers himself up.

"I'm gonna be right back, don't move."

Combeferre walks a few steps down the hall until he turns the corner and leans against the wall. He gives himself a few moments to just breathe, his head thunking back against the wall, before he pulls out his phone and calls Joly.

"Ferre? Is something wrong?" Joly asks, tone worried as soon as he picks up.

"Can you come back to the apartment? I picked up R but now we're locked out of the apartment." There's a moment of silence, Joly waiting for him to continue with baited breath. "He – " Combeferre closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, "he got frustrated and unmade the keys."

Joly lets out a shaky breath. "Is he okay?" he asks.

"I don't think so, I think he hasn't really been okay since this all started."

"Understandable," Joly sighs, "Okay. I’m coming, just sit tight."

"Thank you, Joly. I owe you!"

"Bullshit," Joly says and it's a testament to how upset he is that he lets himself swear in public, something he usually never does.

Combeferre goes to say something more but the line goes dead, Joly probably already on his way.

Combeferre turns the corner, tugging his phone back into his pocket and even though he's still at the other end of the hall he can hear Grantaire's ragged breathing, fast and shallow like he's not getting enough oxygen into his lungs fast enough, and something is definitely not right here.

He runs the rest of the way back to where he left Grantaire kneeling on the floor, panic rising up in his throat. He pushes it down violently because he absolutely can  _ not _ afford to panic right now. He needs to help Grantaire.

Grantaire, who is cowering, pressed into a corner of the hallway wrapped around himself as tight as he could manage.

Grantaire, who's shaking, whose breaths are still coming too fast, is clearly hyperventilating. Combeferre drops down next to him, almost crashing into him with the momentum he has, but catching himself at the last second.

One hand comes up hovering at Grantaire's shoulder, fluttering like a helpless bird, and he forces himself to calm down. He's done this before, he can do it again, this is not the first panic attack he's helped Grantaire through.

"Grantaire," he says, voice steady and urgent, demanding Grantaire's attention and pulling him out of his panic, even if it's just momentarily.

There's a shaky inhale that tells Combeferre that Grantaire has heard him and knows that he's here.

"I'm here," he says, just to make sure Grantaire knows, hoping it might reassure him if even just a little bit.

"Do you have your meds on you?"

He knows Grantaire has anti-anxiety meds, knows he doesn't like to take them if he doesn't absolutely have to, but this is bad. This is really bad.

There's a shaky exhale from Grantaire accompanied by the slightest shake of his head, and of course he doesn't have them on him, they're probably in his room where they always are.

"Can I hug you?" he asks, still not touching Grantaire, waiting for him to give his permission.

Instead of answering, he practically launches himself at Combeferre, his arms coming up around Combeferre's waist and his hands twisting in Combeferre's sweater. He buries his face in Combeferre's chest and doesn't move for a long time.

After a long moment of stillness Combeferre brings one hand up to Grantaire's hair, finally daring to touch. He starts methodically untangling Grantaire's soft, thick curls, knowing how much he like it when people play with his hair and how much it calms him.

"What do you need?" Combeferre finally asks when Grantaire is still breathing heavily and it doesn't look like it's getting better.

"Just – " Grantaire's voices is rough and he coughs into his shoulder before trying again. "Just stay here with me for now?"

It sounds like a question, like Grantaire thinks Combeferre would leave him alone sitting in this hallway having a panic attack.

"Of course, of course I will. Always," Combeferre promises.

Grantaire nods against his sweater but he doesn't seem very reassured.

"I promise," Combeferre insists.

That makes Grantaire laugh for some reason. "I know you wouldn't, not like this, anyway. You're too good of a person for that." He sighs. "I just can't help thinking that some day you're gonna find someone better than me, someone who's better  _ for you _ and then you're going to leave and I won't even be able to be mad because you'd be happy and that would make it all worth it."

" _ You're _ the best for me." Combeferre says because it's all he can say, as shocked as he is, to think that Grantaire thinks something like that is likely to happen when Combeferre has been head over heels for him (albeit secretly) ever since they went to high school together. "I'm the happiest when I'm with  _ you, _ " he adds truthfully.

"Don't say something like that just because you feel like you have to." Grantaire groans, pressing his face back into Combeferre's shoulder, his breathing growing ragged again, clearly distressed by that thought.

"I'm not, I'm really not. Hey, look at me  – breathe, okay?" Combeferre says, taking Grantaire's face between both of his hands, gently but firmly guiding his face up until he can look him in the eyes.

"I can't breathe," Grantaire chokes out, panicked.

"Let's breathe together again, okay?" Combeferre smiles.

He draws a breath deep into his lungs waiting and watching while Grantaire does the same, his breath stuttering just a little. As soon as Combeferre exhales, the air is rushing out of Grantaire's lungs, faster than Combeferre would like. They try again, breathing in and out, Combeferre never losing eye contact with Grantaire, looking for any signs that the panic is going to rise again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright!!! last chapter (for now)

Joly turns up when they've been breathing for so long that Grantaire's breathing is coming close to normal again and he looks like he's calmed down enough that Combeferre feels comfortable pulling him up alongside him and finally breaking eye contact to look at Joly.

Joly isn't looking at him, though, frowning worriedly at Grantaire.

"I'm okay now," Grantaire says in answer to a question Joly doesn't need to ask, smiling reassuringly although he still looks a little shaken.

Joly doesn't look entirely reassured but he only scrutinizes Grantaire for a moment longer before he goes to unlock the door, throwing Combeferre a quick smile while he goes.

The apartment is just as bright and open as always when Joly pushes the door open, light streaming in through the high windows and the skylights. It manages to look clean cut and sharp even when there's traces of Joly, Musichetta and Grantaire all over the place, clothes thrown haphazardly over the back of the couch, a whole pile of shoes accumulated next to the door and books everywhere.

Combeferre loves the apartment, perhaps even more than his tiny little student flat.

None of them know exactly how they can afford an apartment this big in such a good part of town and all Musichetta ever says when someone asks her how she makes that much money (because it can't all come from fortune telling) is that she has certain sources working with the stock market and she herself has a good eye for investments. After that Combeferre doesn't keep asking, plausible deniability and all that.

Grantaire shuffles past him through the door and Combeferre follows him, closing and locking the door behind himself.

"You should stay for lunch," Joly says suddenly, turning to him.

"He has classes, Joly," Grantaire says before he can reply. "We shouldn't hold him up even more than I already have today." He's giving Joly a Look, capital L and all, but Combeferre can't even begin to decipher it before Grantaire drops it, glancing over at him nervously.

"I'd love to stay for lunch," Combeferre smiles at both of them and Joly claps his hands with a delightful grin as if that settles it all.

Combeferre can't shake the feeling that something is off, though. He keeps replaying that moment in his head while Joly goes about making sandwiches, chatting cheerfully with Grantaire, the pointed stare Grantaire had directed at Joly as if to keep Joly from saying something or trying to communicate something he couldn't say out loud in front of Combeferre. And, ouch, if that thought didn't hurt.

Of course Grantaire had the right to not share things with Combeferre but he'd always thought they were the kind of childhood friends that told each other everything. Maybe that has changed for Grantaire. And Combeferre isn't blaming him for it, definitely not, (it's not like he's always been completely honest with Grantaire, just when it came to the important stuff) it just makes him wonder what it is that Grantaire feels he can't tell Combeferre.

Lunch is ready then and Combeferre abandons his somber thoughts in favour of joking with Joly and Grantaire over their sandwiches.

Before he even notices it, Grantaire is nudging his leg, glancing pointedly at the clock and Combeferre almost drops his sandwich.

"Oh darn it! Sorry you guys, I really should get going."

"We know," Joly giggles, "We've just been waiting for you to notice."

"Don't worry," Grantaire adds, "we would've told you if you'd been horrendously late." There's a bright grin on his face and even if Combeferre knows that their problems are far from over, he can't help his heart thudding a little faster at seeing Grantaire smile.

"Of course you would've," Combeferre jokes. "I'll see you two later."

"Are you coming around for dinner?" Joly asks.

"Sure," Combeferre agrees, glancing at Grantaire who's suddenly absorbed in his sandwich as if the structure of the salad leaf is the most fascinating thing in the world. "If you'll have me."

"Always," Joly swears, laughing.

"As glad as I am to hear that, I really have to go now," he says, one hand already on the doorknob.

"Bye," Grantaire and Joly call out and Combeferre gives them one last wave before he's out of the door.

 

It's a rather calm day at Fantine's Clinic for Powered Individuals which means that by the time Bahorel comes in with Feuilly by their side Combeferre is extremely thankful for the distraction of actual work keeping him from dwelling on the thoughts that have been running through his mind all day.

"How is it that you two, despite both having offensive powers, always manage to be the ones to get hurt?"

"You should see the other guys," Feuilly laughs, their split lip bursting open again.

"Strength isn’t an offensive power by nature. It’s only offensive if you choose to employ it in such a way," Bahorel pronounces, lifting their chin and sniffing delicately.

"Which you do," Combeferre reminds them, "so don't act all haughty with me. I know about all the shenanigans you two get into." He crosses his arms over his chest, looking at them with one eyebrow raised.

"Okay okay, doc, you got us. So we're extremely anti-government political activists who like to get right into the middle of things to defend our friends from bigots. Sue us," Bahorel says, their hands held up in surrender, with a giant grin stretching across their face.

"And communists, we're also communists," Feuilly says, elbowing Bahorel. "They always forget that part," they add to Combeferre in an undertone.

"Speak for yourself, comrade," Bahorel says in such a way that, really, to say they proclaimed would be more fitting. "I, for my part, am a rich white heterosexual capitalist man in my late forties and how  _ dare _ you suggest that I am powered. How  _ dare _ you?"

Which is funny, because really Bahorel is a poor black bigender student who regularly gets kicked out of their classes for wearing spiked leather jackets with high heels.

"Sure you are," Combeferre laughs, finally ushering the both of them into a secluded treatment room to tend to their injuries.

"But enough about us, what about you?" Bahorel asks, going serious. "You don't look too good yourself."

"It's nothing," Combeferre sighs, "It's just been a rough day."

"Hmm," Bahorel nods sagely, "I feel that."

"Hey," Feuilly says, gently nudging Combeferre with his shoulder, "you wanna talk about it?"

Combeferre looks around even though they're in a separate treatment room and there's no one here but the three of them but on the other hand there's no place where it's safe to talk about this kind of thing and it never hurts to be extra cautious.

"A friend of mine just developed his power," he whispers finally.

"Woah," Bahorel raises both eyebrows in surprise. "This late? That must've been rough."

Combeferre can only nod.

"If you – " Feuilly starts, looking intently at him. "If he needs somewhere to learn to control his powers," they trail off.

Combeferre knows that if he says yes now it will tell them everything they need to know, that Grantaire is hiding from the government, that he can't go to an official treatment center, that his power is potentially dangerous.

"We've told you before about that group we go to, right?" Bahorel says. "The activist group, every Wednesday and Friday."

"I'll – " Combeferre considers his options, "I'll talk to my friend about it, see if he wants to come."

"Honey, if your friend is as bad off as you make it sound it's not gonna be about whether he  _ wants _ to come or not," Bahorel says, one hand on Combeferre's shoulder.

"I know," Combeferre sighs, "believe me, I know."

 

"You don’t have to stay, of course. We can leave whenever you want I'm just asking you to consider it."

"Because it's my only chance," Grantaire says and it isn't really a question and he won't look up from where his hands are laying on the table.

"I – " Combeferre starts before Musichetta talks over him, "Yes."

Combeferre throws her a wide eyed look but she ignores him, keeping her gaze steady on Grantaire until he looks up at her. "This is your only chance to survive. This is your only chance to be free  _ and _ alive," she says very seriously. "You should take it."

"We'll come with you if that would help," Joly pipes up from beside Musichetta, giving Grantaire a reassuring smile.

"That – yeah I think that would help," Grantaire says. He rakes a hand through his hair and sighs.

"Will you – " he turns slightly to better look at Combeferre, "will you come too?" he asks.

"Of course," Combeferre says, squeezing Grantaire's hand.

"As if that was ever a question," Musichetta mutters under her breath and Joly giggles. The sound is like bells caught in a sudden rush of wind and it breaks the tense atmosphere like the first ray of sunshine sneaking over the horizon in the morning.

"Okay, then I – yeah, I'll go."

"We'll go," Musichetta amends.

"Yeah, we'll go." Grantaire looks up, giving them a small smile.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr as [twlesbians](http://twlesbians.tumblr.com/)


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